


Death Rites

by mogwai_do



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Dark, Gen, Gore, Horsemen Era, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 16:18:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/624116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogwai_do/pseuds/mogwai_do
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rites of Passage, Rites of Sacrifice, Rites of Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Rites

The sound of blood dripping to the rug is soft, yet it is the loudest thing in the room. The lamps gutter slightly in the faint breeze from the entrance, making the shadows dance on the walls, leaping and circling like ecstatic celebrants. The light is red and gold, like the rugs and the cushions, like the blood and the blade that are the focus of the scene. The Master's clothes are the white of exposed bone, though his hands and arms are bloody to the elbow. His hair hangs like a dark veil, almost as dark as his eyes. Some of the other slaves have told me of places where dark veils are worn for mourning, others where they are worn by girls until they reach womanhood - rites of passage both, to pass beyond the veil.

He never speaks on nights like these, is never interrupted, though I remember Master Kronos sitting to the side once, watching as silent and unmoving as a statue. The other slaves stay away if they can; they fear my Master more than any other, though they cannot say why. He is not as quick to temper as Kronos, nor as carelessly brutal as Silas, nor as wantonly cruel as Caspian, yet still they fear him. He has no favourites; they cannot fathom his intent nor divine his weaknesses - he cannot be predicted. I am the longest surviving slave here and I have been his since the beginning. I chose, as all slaves do, to which of my masters I would give my loyalty and never have I questioned my choice.

I have attended to him on nights like this many times, watched him work in firelight and shadows and silence. I have seen him torture at his brothers' behest, seen him taunt and mock and unravel the secrets of a defended mind - this is not that. This happens rarely and only by his own will; his brothers have learned not to gainsay the choices he makes when it comes to this. Sometimes his choice is obvious - a chieftain or a great warrior captured; sometimes less so - a mother ripped from the broken bodies of the children she defended alone, a favoured concubine, an elderly slave.

The priests of my village sacrificed to the gods at each turning of the seasons, held it the most sacred of their duties, yet they performed it with none of the skill and artistry my Master possesses. Fingers trace gently over the white paths of bared ribs and the golden blade rises again, delicate as a summer breeze trailing crimson blossoms behind it. There is reverence in the dark glitter of his eyes as they follow the path of the knife, though there are no chants, no exhortations, no pleas or thanks to any gods. A fellow slave from my own village once asked me to whom my Master sacrificed; I had no answer for him then and he held the sacrifice worthless. Now I understand more than I once did; the sacrifice holds more value to my Master than ever it did to our priests, for it is not offered to his gods - I do not believe he has any - but it is a life chosen for his own.

In the silence and the guttering light, surrounded by the shadows dancing to his song of blood, he sees to the heart, he listens to the soul and he understands the life he holds before he takes it. When the lamps fail and the shadows enfold them both, I have attended him, as silent as he requires. I have cleaned the blood from his skin, brushed the tangles from the silken length of his hair, stripped away his soiled garments and watched as he has knelt in the darkness, the only light that which he has taken into himself. In the hushed dawn I have carried the empty husk from his tent and left it for the jackals, but I have seen the light in his eyes linger for days. Even his brothers step lightly around him then; Silas will treat him like one of his newest colts, Caspian will avoid him altogether, but Kronos will watch him, as silent as my Master the night before, and he will listen attentively to the few words my Master will speak. I have listened to his words also, but only now do I understand them, for they whisper to me now in the glitter of his eyes and the staining of his skin. Beyond the dark veil of his hair, I see the light birthing in his eyes as his blade bites deep and the pain in my body sings for him alone. He takes nothing I do not freely offer and when my light has faded from his eyes, sunken into the core of him, accepted in my entirety, I know I am exalted beyond the dreams of paradise.

 

FIN


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